


You can't mimic love (let me trace your heart lines)

by Heroes_and_Disasters



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Morrigan owns a tattoo shop, Post-Blight, Sten owns a bakery, Zev and Leliana are tattoo artists, still dwarves and elves and mages
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 10:39:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3526166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heroes_and_Disasters/pseuds/Heroes_and_Disasters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was only halfway through the night and already one dwarf had almost drowned in the punch, the drapes caught on fire, and half the silverware was missing. </p><p>A mild party, by dwarven standards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been trying to post this and it keeps messing up, but third time's the charm! There's an extreme lack of Male Aeducan/Zevran (AKA I've seen absolutely none and it's my favorite pairing) so I thought I'd try to remedy that.

It was only halfway through the night and already one dwarf had almost drowned in the punch, the drapes caught on fire, and half the silverware was missing. 

A mild party, by dwarven standards.

Beckett found himself thankful for his older brother’s paranoia. Trian had been expecting at least a few assassination attempts and the extra guards had been real handy in putting out the smoking drapery. That had been their excitement of the evening, because shockingly enough, no assassins had decided to RSVP.

Of course, the fact that no one thought Trian important enough to assassinate meant that the big lout would be sulking about it later—sometimes Beckett wondered about his family’s priorities.

The Grand Hall had a mosaic floor of a thousand colors, lit by the bright chandeliers above. The stone walls were covered in golden, slightly burnt drapes, and the stone transitioned into a beautiful crystal ceiling. There were large statues about the Grand Hall, each of some paragon or another that Beckett had been forced to learn about, in far too much detail, in his lessons.

Most of the company that attended was on the dancefloor, over a hundred dwarves had been invited. All of them were nameless faces that Beckett had seen a million times before and yet he was sure they had never shared a sentence.

Oh look, two dancers had decided to start an impromptu game of red rover.

“Something funny, Serah?”

Beckett inclined his head to his bodyguard, although he didn’t take his eyes off the dancefloor. “We are such a cultured race.” He said in amusement.

A servant passed by with a tray of drinks and Beckett deftly snatched one, leaning against the side wall that he was starting to consider His Spot. Considering he hadn’t moved all evening he thought he had a good claim.

“Don’t let the others hear that, they’ll say you insulted their ancestors and try to get something free from you.” Gorim replied in the hushed tone of familiarity.

Beckett had known Gorim for most of his life, they were childhood friends and it had only seemed natural that Gorim take up the position of his bodyguard. There was no one Beckett trusted more, besides maybe his mabari.

Gorim looked the part of a bodyguard, strong and stout. Compared to a runt like Beckett it was surprising that anyone could even think Beckett was of higher station between the two, maybe it was the fancy clothes. Gorim was the stereotypical dwarf, with a barrel of a chest and a braided beard, Beckett could look at half the statues around the Grand Hall and think they were of his bodyguard.

Of course, as fearsome as Gorim would like people to believe he was, Beckett would always remember the kid that had wet the bed till he was nine and that was scared of nugs to the point that he had to cross the entire street as one passed.

“Who wouldn’t want free stuff?” Beckett asked, taking a drink. “It’s really the only good thing to come of these parties. I hope you remembered to grab me a goodie bag.”

Gorim let out a sigh, “This party is being held in your own home. They’re your goodie bags.”

“I know, and I put some good stuff in there specifically for myself. Make sure to grab one before the party’s done.” Beckett pulled out his cellphone, drink in his left hand as he checked the time. It was after midnight, didn’t these people have bedtimes? Most of them were twenty years Beckett’s senior.

“Ah, brother, interested in the festivities as always.”

Beckett looked up with a smile, sliding his phone back into his fancy black pants. “I thought I’d do the family a favor and stand off to the side looking pretty. After last year’s dancing, I’m not eager for a repeat.”

Bhelen laughed, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Bhelen was three years younger than Beckett, just turned 21. He was rather quiet, always able to stay out of trouble.

His brothers both had fair skin and blond hair, thick beards covering their hammer jaws like personal conquests for dwarven glory. They took after their father, big in stature and both several inches taller than him. 

Beckett, on the other hand, looked just like his mother, a picture of her in his room to confirm this because it had been a long time since he saw her last. He could remember her hands and her voice, but much else was lost with the memories of childhood. 

He had the same dark brown skin and eyes just a shade lighter than gold. Her brown hair had curled past her shoulders, but he kept his just long enough to tie back and out of his face. 

“Harrowmont is never going to trust you around his fancy porcelain again.” Bhelen said, obviously reminiscing about the last party they were at.

“They were all hideous anyways, nug-themed and everything. I was doing him a favor.”

“Sure, brother.”

The Aeducans were very familiar with parties, but probably most important was the one they held for their father’s birthday every year. Endrin Aeducan was turning the ripe age of 65 this evening.

Their family was said to be descended from dwarven royalty, the last royals to hold the throne. That was before the dwarves permanently opened their gates to the surface and swore allegiance to the king of Ferelden as a last resort against the darkspawn. A city being overrun tended to call for desperate measures.

In this day and age, the Aeducans were in demand jewelers, their products the most sought after in all of Thedas. Even if they didn’t hold a crown anymore, they could easily make their own, and their status in Orzammar made them almost impossible to get rid of without risking the collapse of the entire dwarven economy.

King Cailan, the current king of Ferelden, had recently had his own jewelry commissioned from them for his wedding day. The Aeducans considered that kind of order relatively common.

Beckett designed jewelry for the company. He didn’t have his brothers’ business sense, nor the motivation to work with numbers all day, but art—now that was something he took pride in. That was something neither of his brothers had any skill in.

“Incoming.” Gorim muttered, drawing Beckett’s attention.

Trian was heading over to them, hands clenched in fists and a glower on his face. His hair was the longest of the three brothers, braided regally back from his face in what would be a handsome look if he wasn’t so serious.

“What’s wrong with him?” Beckett asked, swirling the alcohol around in his glass, only halfway through it. Bhelen sighed.

“He got turned down when he asked that girl to dance, you know, that brown haired one he’s liked for a while?”

“He could do better.”

“You mean she could do better.” Bhelen replied.

Trian crossed his arms as he stopped before them, puffing out his chest in an attempt to recollect his dignity. At least, that’s what Beckett thought he was doing, he was never quite sure why his brothers did so much posturing. 

“Beckett,” Trian scolded, “Have you even taken the time to congratulate our father on his birthday yet? I don’t believe you’ve moved from this corner all night.”

“Correction, this is a wall, and not only is it a wall, but it is perfectly equidistant to the drinks and the food. Gorim can therefore get me my cake and alcohol swiftly should I require additional support to make it through this party.” Beckett smiled as Gorim coughed a laugh. “And secondly, I made dad pancakes this morning. You would have known that if you got up before noon, I even gave them faces. One was you.”

“Nice to see you using your artistic talent for something important.” Trian shook his head.

“I aspire for greatness.” Beckett gestured grandly with the hand still holding the drink, the amber liquid threatening to spill over the edge with the momentum.

Trian looked like he was going to say something harsh, but then his shoulders slightly deflated. Trian never could be angry with him for long, even less so when the anger was misplaced. “At least talk to five people, that’s all I’m asking.” He said after a moment, his voice still gruff, “We have these parties to network just as much as we have them to celebrate father’s life. Don’t be inconsiderate.”

Beckett made a face, scrunching up his nose at the thought of socializing. He downed the last of his drink, handing the empty glass to Gorim as he pushed off the wall. 

Beckett saluted Trian as he passed him, grinning at his brother’s scowl. Bhelen followed him while Trian went in search of the drinks.

“I don’t know how you put up with him.” Bhelen muttered, glancing back as they skirted the dancefloor.

Beckett waved a hand vaguely. He did so love talking with his hands. “He’s all bark and no bite. Always has been. It helps to remember that he wanted a pony for his birthday until he was sixteen.”

“I’m afraid I was too young to remember that detail.” Bhelen said dryly.

“Pity, Trian was a lot of fun until dad started getting on him about inheriting the business.”

“Yes, I question dad’s decision on that.” Bhelen said this so quietly for a moment Beckett thought he imagined it.

His reply was cut off, however, by the sudden presence of a tall human wearing armor. He wore a military jacket made of paragon leather, a material dwarven master smiths had created a few years ago. Metal was woven into the very fibers of the fabric to allow excellent movement without downgrading the defense, just as good as steel plate and many would say even better. Heavy brown boots, gloves, and black pants finished the outfit.

The human had an impressive physique Beckett couldn’t help but appreciate. 

Beckett took a step back, looking up. He only came up to the human’s waist, which was more a testament to his height than the human’s as Bhelen came up to the human’s chest.

“Ah, forgive me, I had been hoping to speak with you.” The human said in a warm voice. He looked Rivaini, dark skin and dark hair pulled back in a tie. A golden hoop shone in his ear, dampening the official aura he carried about him.

Beckett looked back at Bhelen, thinking the human was speaking to his brother, but Bhelen subtly shook his head. Beckett turned back around, “Um, well, you’ve found me.” Beckett said awkwardly, a hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

“I am Duncan, of the Grey Wardens.” That much Beckett could have assumed from the large silver griffon pauldron over the human’s left shoulder. “Your father was just praising your work. He showed me some designs from your recent line, based on your dog, correct?”

Beckett laughed, “Yeah, I made it on a dare cause Trian said it’d never sell.”

“It was charming. I wonder if I could commission you to make something for the grey wardens?”

Beckett tried not to gape. Oh, that sly dog. His father knew Beckett idolized the grey wardens, he had ever since he was little. His mabari was even named Griffon after the extinct steeds of the wardens of old.

Duncan would have been in the battle against the Archdemon just that past year, this age’s Blight only having been defeated recently. Even before that, he would have been at Ostagar, he had to have seen thousands of darkspawn. 

They had heard of the battle all the way in Orzammar and everyone agreed, if not for Queen Anora’s counsel on the battlefield, King Cailan would never had won in the battle of Ostagar. 

It had been all over the news for at least a month after the battle, and even included an incredibly disgruntled quote from General Loghain: “The Orlesian grey wardens have helped us greatly to defeat this menace, but now they can kindly go back to their own country and leave Ferelden soil to the Fereldens.”

Because of the success of the battle and consequent Archdemon to take down, there had been an influx in grey warden recruits, enough so that the order had regular patrols now to guard all the major cities, which included Orzammar.

Beckett didn’t often see them, they spent most of their time around or in the Deep Roads, but it was enough to know that they were there.

He had often dreamed about joining the grey wardens, but that was before he realized he had no talent in fighting and the sharpest object he should ever try holding was a pencil.

“I’d be honored.” Beckett hoped he wasn’t beaming like a small child.

Duncan gave an answering smile, “Good, good, perhaps if you’d care to join me we could discuss the details.”

“Sure, let me just—I’ll just get my sketchbook.” Beckett motioned quickly with his hands.

“Of course, I’ll wait here.”

Beckett restrained himself from running until he was out of the Grand Hall, but it was a close thing. Gorim was laughing by the time they got to his room, his armor had been horrendously loud in the quiet stone halls as he chased after Beckett.

“Oh shush.” Beckett said, unlocking his door.

“Are you even trying to act like you don’t get off on griffons? Not you big boy.” The latter was said to the large mabari that lay on Beckett’s bed, his head had picked up at the word “griffon”.

“Gorim,” Beckett chided, “You will mention nothing about griffons when we’re talking with the grey warden.”

“You mean I can’t tell him how you wore those grey warden pajamas with the certain print on them until someone had to forcibly take them away from you?”

“That was a dark time.” Beckett snatched one of many sketchbooks from his desk, checking the inside before tucking it under his arm and grabbing a pencil from the small cup housing an army of writing instruments. “I’m serious, you say one word and you can say goodbye to your beard.”

Gorim held up a hand defensively over his beard, “You wouldn’t.”

Beckett grinned, perhaps a little wickedly, “I did it once. I’ll do it again.”

He pet Griffon’s head as he passed by, the mabari letting out a quiet “woof” in response before laying his head back down. Beckett locked the door once more behind him, placing his pencil behind his ear as he hurried back to the Grand Hall.

Duncan was, in fact, still waiting for him, much to Beckett’s surprise. He had half expected Duncan to rethink his terrible, terrible, impromptu commission. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” Beckett said as he met Duncan at the entryway.

“It was only but a moment.” Duncan said in response, and inclined his head for them to walk. Duncan didn’t lead them back into the party, but instead down another hall in the palace that was open to the public but less occupied.

Beckett couldn’t help but notice the two daggers sheathed at Duncan’s hips, a slight feeling of doubt and suspicion passing through him before he shook it off. He looked back at Gorim, who had apparently been thinking the same thing and smiled at Beckett in reassurance.

They stopped at one of the stone archways, a balcony leading out to a large pool of lava below and lighting the area in a warm glow. It was a magnificent sight, lava pouring from the walls of Orzammar in firefalls, all collecting beneath the city that was carved into the mountain.

There was no other place like it.

“So what sort of piece are you thinking about?” Beckett asked, sitting nonchalantly on the rail of the balcony, one leg crossing over the other to create a makeshift table for his sketchbook. 

Duncan looked over the edge, pulling at the collar of his armor for a moment before he stepped farther back. “I require an amulet, one that can contain a liquid.” He took out from beneath his armor a small amulet that was simple and round, it was made of gold with light etchings around the edges.

“Can I?” Beckett held out his hand tentatively and Duncan smiled, passing it to him. Beckett turned it over in his hands, holding it as though it were made of glass. The etchings looked pretty but they didn’t seem to have any symbolic importance, it seemed more important that the amulet was sturdy and wouldn’t break. “What is it meant to hold?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“Nothing acidic, I presume. This is standard gold, yes? If you don’t want to tell me what it is I’d assume you don’t want it to be see-through.”

Duncan laughed, “Your father said you were clever. The liquid that goes into it isn’t acidic, we chose gold for these because we wanted something that would not tarnish and that would last a while. It’s important that it can withstand battle.”

“We’ll keep with the gold then.” Beckett said, passing the amulet back. Duncan clasped it back around his neck, slipping it beneath his armor. 

It would have to be a thin design as well, so as to not be too bulky.

Beckett took his pencil from behind his ear, opening up his sketchbook to a clean page and writing his notes off to the side. He looked back up at Duncan, “So did you have something in mind besides practicality? Any designs you wanted?”

“The symbol of the grey wardens is the griffon, if you chose to incorporate that I would not be adverse, but I wish to leave the freedom of the design up to you.”

That was a lot of pressure. Beckett didn’t even know where to start, he didn’t want to make a tacky amulet and just making it a griffon would be toeing the line between cool and gaudy.

“I think I can manage something adequate.” Beckett said, even though he was completely unsure if he really could manage that. 

“Excellent. I must still speak with some of the people at the party, but I trust that we can stay in touch.” 

“I think I’m going to stay out here for a while longer, ruminate and all that on designs.” Beckett said, twirling his pencil. Gorim cleared his throat in what was probably an attempt to not laugh at what was blatantly a lie; Beckett just didn’t want to go and finish socializing.

“As you will,” Duncan inclined his head, “It was a pleasure meeting you Beckett Aeducan.”

“And you Duncan of the Grey Wardens.”

Duncan turned and left, arms clasped behind his back like a soldier. Gorim came closer when Duncan was gone, shaking his head. “You’re terrible.”

“What?” Beckett asked, gesturing, “I’m ruminating.” He pointedly scribbled down another note on the sketchbook, even if it was nothing more than "Gorim smells".

Gorim took a seat next to Beckett on the rail. They used to toss coppers of the edges of the balconies, making wishes on the melting metal. They were long since too old for that, but even as Beckett thought this, Gorim smiled at him, pulling a copper out of his coin purse.

“For a prosperous life.” Beckett raised his eyebrow at Gorim’s words, and his friend explained in a dry tone, “the stone knows you won’t get one if someone doesn’t wish it for you.” Gorim said, flicking his finger and sending the copper spinning into the lava below.

“That’s terrible for the economy you know.” Beckett said, watching its path.

“It’ll survive.”


	2. Chapter 2

The palace that was home to the Aeducans was old, possibly one of the oldest buildings in Orzammar. Their family living in it was a testament to the status they once had and still hold, it was a huge pride thing, glory to the dwarves and all that.

Most of their home though had actually been changed into housing for the company, there were board rooms and offices where there had once been servant quarters, and the old armory had been changed to a break room that was home to Beckett’s favorite coffee machine. 

The ancestors would probably be horrified to see what had become of them. Beckett thought it interesting how the dwarves changed over time, how what they viewed as honorable back then was completely different now. Military prowess wasn’t what families prioritized, it was all about how much economic success one could gain. In this way, even commoners could achieve a level of greatness higher than a noble. 

That wasn’t to say that all of those economic successes were entirely clean though. The Underground was as alive as ever, a very real part of what made Orzammar tick, dealing in lyrium smuggling and pit fights. Dust Town was the capital of debauchery and sin, an overcrowded, dark place where it seemed almost as though the modern age hadn’t touched it. 

Beckett didn’t go down there, in fact he avoided the area altogether considering his fighting skills would amount to him getting stabbed two steps in, but he couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t something more people could do.

As to what though, he couldn’t say.

He could just see the tops of the buildings of Dust Town from the window of his room, past the Diamond Quarter and the Commons, just a gloom on the already dark horizon. There were lanterns that hung from the cavernous ceiling, on thin iron chains, balls of glowing light that were constantly lit. 

They didn’t reach into Dust Town, stopping just before the gates.

His mother had always told him to never go where the lanterns stopped, many parents did, the best way to give children a boundary for where it was safe and where it wasn’t.

He wondered if he was just a little bit braver, had a little more courage, he would go beyond those lanterns. He’d see the corruption for himself, try to find some way to help, to change it. 

Dust Town, the idea of it, was a stain on Orzammar. It pulled the people who lived there into the recess of crime and gave them no other option but to continue in the same rut until they died. Just handing out money wasn’t going to change anything, as many people suggested during annual city meetings. 

You have to be taught how to use money, how to save it, how to spend it on the right things. Dwarves with lyrium addictions had to be given help or they’d spend everything on enabling their habit. Criminals would extort others for their allowance. Orphans and the elderly would be the first targets, those with none to protect them.

Their civilization had come so far, it was incomprehensible that there was still so much wrong in the world.

Beckett sighed, looking away from the window. He didn’t know. He wasn’t an authority to speak on this, he didn’t have authority to speak on anything. He was just the second son who could draw pretty things.

His cellphone buzzed from his desk, frantically shifting the stack of papers that had been placed carelessly on top of it. Now that was something he could do—clean his room. He laughed, moving the papers and checking his phone.

**Big Bro 1:17 pm**

Meet me in the  
Exhibition Room. 

**Beckett 1:19 pm**

What a scandalous  
proposition, whatever  
would father say? 

**Big Bro 1:21 pm**

Don’t be a smart ass.

**Beckett 1:23 pm**

That does have a certain  
fatherly ring to it.

**Big Bro 1:25 pm**

Beckett.

**Beckett 1:27 pm**

Chill, omw.

**Big Bro 1:29 pm**

I don’t know what  
that means. Was that  
an insult.

**Big Bro 1:30 pm**

Stop using chatspeak.

Beckett pocketed his phone, throwing on an old hoodie over his sleeveless as he headed out of the room. It was normally warm in Orzammar because of geothermal heating, but sometimes the heating updates didn’t reach the older parts of the palace so the temperature could, and would, drop several degrees into an uncomfortably clammy atmosphere. 

Griffon followed behind, an ever-present, much loved shadow. 

The Exhibition Room was a long hall littered with display cases for some of their better jewelry pieces. It had the same crystal ceiling that the important rooms of the palace had, a glittering blue that lit up the room even when the chandeliers were turned off.

Beckett had two pieces that had managed to make it into the room, and one of them, much to his chagrin and Trian’s disgust, was a mabari inspired bandolier. The other was an amulet he made in memory of his mother, the same one he wore about his neck right now.

Trian was looking at one of the many amulets, arms placed behind his back. He was wearing a suit and Beckett wondered, not for the first time, why _anyone_ would wear a suit when it wasn’t required. 

Trian turned at the sound of Beckett’s footsteps, his lips pursing in a familiar way that told Beckett he probably needed a favor. 

Trian always looked as though he’d rather step in dog shit than ask for help.

“O.M.W. on my way. Really Trian, get with the time.” Beckett said with a grin, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie. It was an old one of Trian’s, too wide at the shoulders but yet comfortably baggy.

“It’s unprofessional.” Trian said in response, “I… There is a matter you must assist me with.” The last part was said haltingly, like he was trying figure out how to ask for help without outright asking for help. Of course he’d go with a direct command.

“The great Trian wants help from me? Oh how the mighty have fallen.”

Trian looked around quickly, “Quiet,” He hissed, stepping closer, “I do not wish to be over heard. It is… personal.”

“It’s about a girl, isn’t it?” Beckett asked knowingly, thinking back to Trian’s rejection at the party two nights ago.

“It’s not about just any woman.” Trian was obviously offended, which meant Beckett was completely right. “Jaylia Helmi is a paragon among dwarves.” He looked away, grimacing, “Our match would unify the two strongest Houses in Orzammar, it is only rational, but I fear that I… am not in her favor.”

“So you need my help wooing a woman?” Beckett asked, trying to keep the smile off his face, “You realize that’s the exact opposite of my interest, right? Not the helping you, but the woman part. My expertise tends to lie in things of more… masculine descent.”

Did he imagine that, or did Trian almost laugh?

“Yes, I realize that. You forget I was the first one you told.” Trian turned back to the amulet that he had been looking at, and Beckett realized with a start that it was his. “But, regardless of your orientation, you are very skilled at making jewelry, and that’s a good way to show intention, yes? Giving a woman a gift?”

“Well, only if she likes the gift. You can’t just shove things at her like a cat dropping dead mice on the doorstep. That is, both unwanted and slightly threatening.”

Trian glared at him, “I know that much. I am older than you and more experienced, it’s _my_ duty to impart wisdom and I do so frequently… this occasion is just an outlier.” Trian went quiet, a hand coming up to scratch at his beard in a rather uncharacteristic motion, “Her favorite color is turquoise.” Trian said softly, before clearing his throat.

Beckett wished that others could see Trian the way he did. 

He wished Trian didn’t act the way he did. 

Trian was strict. He could be mean and his words could hurt far more than he intended. But he also used to pick Beckett up when he fell, and he defended his honor more than once when Beckett went through a bad breakup. He wasn’t good at the whole comforting and being nice thing, but he cared about people all the same. 

The dwarf had a damned diary, if that didn’t speak volumes about the secret softy on the inside he didn’t know what did.

Trian would make a good leader for the company, but he needed someone there who knew him, who could help him get across what he was really trying to convey. Beckett liked to think that person was him, but now that he was thinking about it, maybe it could be this Jaylia.

Maybe there could be someone else Trian could rely on, he didn’t have any friends besides Beckett and they were blood relations. It was different when a person wanted to be around you by choice.

“A necklace?” Beckett asked, “It’s subtle, not too pushy as a ring would be. What design were you thinking of?”

Trian looked surprised for a moment, as though he hadn’t expected Beckett to agree, or at least not so easily, but he caught up quick. “Something pretty, as she is, a flower or crystal.”

Beckett chuckled, “Why brother, I think you’re turning into a romantic.”

“Don’t be insolent.”

“Alright, I’ll see what I can do.” Beckett said, “Though you know you don’t have to be so secretive about all this. It’s not wrong of you to be in love.”

Trian scratched more at his beard, his cheeks red. “It’s embarrassing. And even more so when I don’t even know if she returns my affection. I don’t know what I’ll do if—” He cut himself off, clearing his throat. “Anyways. Thank you, Beckett.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Trian nodded at him, apparently concluding their moment together, before turning sharply on his heel and leaving the room. 

Beckett grinned down at Griffon, who was laying by his feet. “Come on, boy, let’s go back to the room.”

Griffon barked happily, tail wagging as he trotted behind Beckett.

He was getting so many commissions lately, he felt, dare he say it, popular. First the grey warden and now Trian.

Beckett grimaced, he still had to finish the grey warden’s amulet. He had made over fifty designs and none of them were good enough. Gorim told him to stop being foolish and just hand something in, but Beckett wasn’t going to show them to anyone if he didn’t like the design. He never committed to a design he didn’t like, it felt like dishonest.

He could already see the design that he wanted for Trian though. A turquoise stone shaped as a crystal, held within a fine golden frame with delicate wiring. Both pretty and strong. He’d draw it out first, but he already had the materials in his room to make it by hand and he’d probably be finished with it tomorrow, if not that night.

“ _Atrast vala_ , brother, where are you off to in a hurry?”

Beckett turned at Bhelen’s voice, stopping in his tracks. Bhelen stood in the shadow of the hallway, almost unnoticeable in the dim lighting. How long had he been there? It was only a short distance away from the Exhibition Room.

“I’ve a commission to do, and I’m inspired to do it.” Beckett said cheerily.

“The grey warden one?” Bhelen asked, stepping into the light. He idly looked down the sides of the hall.

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t gotten any farther with that one. This is for someone else but I’ve been sworn to secrecy, it’s the utmost of classifieds.”

“Indeed.” Bhelen smiled, his lips closed, “I can only guess as to who would warrant such a thing. But no matter, my business is to do with the grey warden commission, I had an idea on how to help you if you were still stuck.”

Beckett brightened, “Really? You’ve no idea how much I need the help. I just can’t narrow it down to one design, there’s nothing that really symbolizes them, you know?”

“Come with me,” Bhelen said, nodding his head to a side hallway, “We can’t speak of it here.”

“What is it with my brothers and secrets?” Beckett sighed, but he followed Bhelen nonetheless.

Beckett was a little ashamed to admit that he wasn’t as close with Bhelen as he was with Trian. He remembered growing up, him and Trian thick as thieves and little Bhelen always running after. 

One day, Bhelen had just stopped chasing them. 

That was about when they all grew up, something changed, walls were put in place that hadn’t been there before and Beckett didn’t know what to do with them.

These new brothers that were his, and yet not. They had so many secrets, when they used to have none. It didn’t sit well with Beckett, but he supposed it was his fault, for letting it get this way. 

He could have tried harder to keep them together, the year they all changed, but he was a teenager that had just lost his mother. His whole world revolved around him and his pain, not even thinking that shutting his brothers out might make them shut him out in return.

Now he was older, and even if he wasn’t completely put together, he knew what he wanted. He wanted that gap closed, he wanted his brothers back. He wanted to see Bhelen and remember the chubby kid that would shriek in laughter as he swung in his arms, not this polite stranger that acted familiar.

They were a little like Orzammar themselves, each carrying a Dust Town inside, that dark part that no one wanted to enter. If Beckett had enough courage, he’d go, he’d see his brothers for what they’ve become, but he was afraid. 

Afraid of what he would see, of what he would find. Of making things worse.

Instead he just saw the glossy finish, what they wanted him to see, lighting lanterns to distract from that dark center, keeping everyone out.

Beckett smiled slightly, just a curl of the lips, as he thought of how Trian had asked for his help. Trian had extended a hand, maybe he wanted to fix things too?

And maybe that’s what Bhelen was trying to do as well.

“An idea came to me,” Bhelen said pleasantly as they left the palace and entered the warm glow of the street lights, “Of course, you might not be up to it. I know how you and Trian love to play by the rules.”

Beckett bristled, “Are you goading me? Name this idea.”

They stopped at a railing, overlooking the lava pools. Across them, on the far side of the city, were ancient doors impossibly high that led into the Deep Roads. Grey wardens patrolled inside, keeping the darkspawn within away from the city, but outside it was relatively quiet. Everyone knew not to go by the Deep Roads, another one of those unspoken parts of the city not to be visited.

Bhelen looked at the doors, “I have a way to let you experience what it truly means to be a grey warden.” He said in a low tone, even though there weren’t many other dwarves about.

Beckett looked at him incredulously, “I’m not that desperate for inspiration.”

Bhelen shrugged, “It was just an idea. I know how to get in and out without being seen, I’ve done it before. I just thought I’d extend the favor to you. My apologies, I didn’t realize you weren’t as brave as your heroes.”

The hurt that ran through him was like a stone dropping in a well, sudden and quick. He didn’t really have a reason to feel that hurt though, hadn’t he just confirmed himself that he wasn’t brave? He looked across to the doors, hands curling around the thick stone rail in front of him. 

A grey warden wouldn’t be scared of going into Dark Town.

“What do you mean you’ve a way to get in there?” Beckett asked. “It’s forbidden for anyone but a grey warden to go in the Deep Roads.”

“It’s amazing what you can get away with when you’re out of the spotlight. Your mother wasn’t the only one to teach their child a few tricks. A rogue can slip in and out without any grey wardens nor darkspawn being the wiser.”

Beckett chewed on his lower lip, feeling his heart beating a staccato rhythm against his ribs. Could he really do this? Could he be like a grey warden? Brave and strong. Those were never two words he associated with himself, but he wanted to.

Bhelen leaned closer, “It’ll be only for a moment brother, just so you can see them with your own eyes, I’m sure it will be all you need to make the perfect amulet for the grey wardens.”

Beckett tugged more insistently on his lip until he tasted the iron of blood, accidentally biting through the skin. 

“Fine.”


End file.
